


The Gift of the Gab

by dickovny



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene Hunt, the world's oldest teenager, doesn't believe in cunnilingus. Or at least, he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a First Time for Everything

Luigi's was empty save the local coppers, who were entirely all but totally sloshed. Chris and Shaz sat at one end of the table, with Drake and the Guv at the other. Raymundo stood at the center of the room, motioning for an audience. Alex was nursing a fat glass of Cab, smiling and half-slumped against the indomitable Gene Genie, both of whom tacitly ignored the physical contact. The scent of her perfume and Luigi's house wine formed a heady bouquet, one that Gene had to actively fight conspicuously over-inhaling. Combined with the weight and warmth of her body against his torso, he was thoroughly distracted and was not, in the slightest, paying attention to Ray's insistent gesticulation as he pantomimed for the whole group the afternoon's “drugs bust” gone awry.

 

According to the boys, they had charged the house at full-tilt machismo, kicking in doors and waving their pistols around shouting. Their reenactment was impassioned; Chris wagged his finger guns and Ray kicked a chair a solid three feet. Luigi audibly groaned.

 

“Very Lethal Weapon,” Alex muttered, to Shaz's blank stare, before dipping into her Vino again. “I've got a pretty lethal weapon,” Gene growled, whispering into Alex's ear. She choked on her wine and then gave him a hearty slap on the chest.

 

The story was thus: The unit had received hot fresh intel from a junkie informant of Gene's that a massive shipment of top grade heroin was being moved through the residential home of a local dealer's sister's cousin's friend's old school mate's shag buddy or some such other hanger-on.

 

After unceremoniously destroying the front door with Ray's boot – he would walk with a pronounced limp for _days,_ like some kind of battle scar _–_ they found absolutely not a single particle of prohibited brown powder. What they _did_ find, was an awful lot of middle-aged naked bodies. In various tableau. _All over the house._

 

“I went in expecting a gunfight, and instead got a load of saggy arses. The smell was right bloody awful too,” Ray said.

 

“Stank like an open air fish market,” Chris laughed. Shaz slugged him in the shoulder, but not without a giggle or two.

 

“An honest to Christ orgy? I didn't even know they really _had_ those,” Alex was wiping tears from her eyes, bordering on hysterical.

 

“The worst part was some queero kneeling in the middle of the room, his mouth right on some woman's twat, like it was his last meal. First thing my eyes laid on, can't burn the image out of em,” Ray shuddered at the recollection.

 

“I'm sorry – 'queero'? Since when does going down on a woman make a man a 'queero'?” Alex asked, waggling air quotes and all.

 

Shaz turned an amazing shade of pink.

 

Chris was suddenly very interested in his shoes.

 

“Cunnilingus is not a man's game, Bols, it's for the sapphists and sissies alike,” Gene said.

 

“Cheers to that, Guv,” Raymond raised his pint glass in appreciation.

 

Alex was now fully indignant on the matter; she sat up and turned to face the Guv head on. She considered herself a fully sexually liberated woman, and had no shyness about the matter.

 

“Are you telling me the Great Gene Hunt has never given a lady a good old-fashioned gob job?” She asked him. Chris spat out his beer. Ray muttered the Lord's name. The silence was palpable. Neither Alex nor Gene broke eye contact.

 

“Never have. Never will. And I think I'm more than alright with that,” he said, calmly sipping his scotch. Gauntlet thrown. The team all turned to look at Drake, ball in her court as it were.

 

“Can't say I'd ever ring that kind of man up again. No kissy? No candy,” she smiled wickedly.

 

“Wouldn't give you my number in the first place, pet. But thanks for the head's up.”

 

_“Oh,_ who said I would ever even _want_ your number to begin with, you miserable self-absorbed arse-” Alex whispered angrily, stopping when Luigi approached the table.

 

“Would we care for anything else to drink this evening?” He asked, motioning at Gene's now empty glass.

 

“No. I think we're quite done here,” Gene huffed, putting on his coat.

 

* * *

 

Gene lay drunk and sweaty and grunting, sheets wrapped around his bare legs, clad in only a pair of Jockey shorts.

Gene stared at the ceiling and tried really quite hard not to think about Alex Drake.

Gene failed.

 

* * *

 

When he slept he dreamed of a naked Alex, rolling on shiny expensive white sheets. Her hair was wild and her make-up was just the right shade of porno. Her nipples were as pert as the fucking Eiffel Tower. Her legs – God they went on forever didn't they? - were spread wantonly, and a man's head was between them, her fingers wound tight in his hair. Gene wondered for a moment if somehow he was watching himself in this lewd act, when the man raised his head.

 

“'ello Genie. Sorry mate, she said you weren't that kind of man,” he laughed, before returning to his prior engagement.

 

Fucking rich prick Danny Moore.

 

Rich prick Danny Moore with his mouth on his Drake's cunt.

 

His mood turned from wildly aroused to wildly enraged and the shift nearly woke him screaming.

 

His sheets were soaked and his breathing ragged, his cock hard as sin. He stared at the ceiling; the dream wasn't hard to parse.

 

“Fuck.”

 

He sighed, ruminating.

 

“Bloody fuck.”

 

Resigned, he closed his eyes and slid his hand into his shorts.

 

* * *

 

Things got tense, in the office. He felt like a rutting teenage boy, getting a hard-on left and right. Once you notice just how badly you want to fuck someone, it becomes a truly pervasive thought. The cut of a blouse, the way her hair catches the light, her tongue flicking against her lip when she thinks – anything, anything at all – and he was off to the washroom to pull himself together. There was a case going on, new leads on that heretofore unseen heroin, but he couldn't manage a coherent thought or insight, all the bloodflow redirecting southward from his brain and whatnot. Chris and Ray ended up doing most of the street work, while Alex and Shaz managed and dictated. Gene's knew his residence in the backseat wasn't wholly unnoticed, but he was sure she was enjoying herself, playing DCI in his wake.

 

He could barely speak to her. He felt like she just _knew_ somehow, knew what she had done to him, and it was fucking embarrassing. Besides, he had to admit to himself, there was a lot going against him here. Firstly, this was Alex Drake. He wasn't going to fuck his DCI, let alone that mouthy tart. Secondly, this was Alex Drake. She wasn't going to fuck him either. She'd made that plenty clear on multiple occasions.

 

And even if he did get there, she said yes, she undressed, what have you – well, he had no idea what he was doing. The first half of “Never have, never will,” is _never have._  
  
So what do you do when you're a middle-aged macho man who wants to learn the trade of the tongue? Ask your mates? That left good ol' Raymundo. Chris. _Viv._ The idea was laughable at best. The Guv wasn't one to talk about his morning cuppa, let alone his late night hijinks.

 

Sex books were a whole embarrassing other angle. Some aging leftist lesbian talking about her labia and 'inner goddess' were not for Gene Hunt. He knew porn was probably not the best source of information for the real world. Do you ring up a prozzy? Perhaps. But all he had to do was picture the look on Drake's face when she inevitably found out. She'd either think he was slinking off for fun or worse, she'd learn of his educational goals. Either road did not lead to his head between her thighs or his tongue in her twat.

 

So resignedly, he'd wait, content to only dream of such _heady_ imaginings.

 

The next few weeks went by in a daze. Young junkies and doped-up dealers were brought in and routinely harangued and rough housed, “psychology” was performed, there was boozing and shouting and Drake threatening to quit and Gene threatening to fire her arse anyway. Chris and Ray bumbled through under the tutelage of the marvelous Shaz, Viv hovered in the background, someone had a breakthrough and the heroin was found. _Hoorah._

 

So again Luigi's.

 

However. Not quite.


	2. Foot-in-Mouth Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting is not their forte.

They were supposed to have the usual celebratory post-case Italian bacchanal at Luigi's. Chris and Shaz had instead buggered off to some romantic evening betwixt themselves, and Ray had recently received word that a favorite uncle of his was laid up in hospital after a nasty car crash. The prognosis wasn't the bleakest, but he felt obligated to pay his dues.

 

So Gene and Alex had found themselves at Luigi's, alone. With Luigi. Which isn't really alone, not when he insists on forcing candlelight and romantic themes in places they truly don't belong. Gene Hunt really doesn't _do_ candlelight.

 

They endured as much as they could, as politely as they could, but Luigi's delivery of the check was a merciful gift from on high that neither would turn down, after which Gene and Alex migrated upstairs, with a bottle of wine under their belt and a second in Gene's meaty hand. He drank from it directly. Glasses were unnecessary between such friends, and for once, Alex concurred.

 

She sat, curled feet under arse, on her sofa. Her nose was ruddy with intoxication and she drank solemnly and contemplatively from the bottle when offered. Gene sat below her, still wearing his fucking jacket, only divesting himself of his shoes. Seeing his stocking feet splayed on her carpet did something weird to her heart that she didn't want to acknowledge at the moment, if ever.

 

“You've gone quiet on me, Bols. That's never a good sign. It means you're trying to think,” he said.

 

“It's...nothing. Nothing important anyway,” she slurred, “doesn't matter.”

 

“A'ight, now I'm sure it does. What's nagging away at your lovely little skull?” He struggled to turn to face her from his floor seat. She stared him dead in the eyes, took another large gulp of wine, steeling herself for the words about break free from the last vestiges of her sobriety.

 

“Have you _really_ never gone down on a woman before? I mean seriously, in your whole life? Not even once?”

 

Gene grunted and returned his gaze to the floor. Suddenly he was somewhere between tentatively aroused and wanting to jump from the second story window. There were bushes below, he'd probably survive. He'd lived through worse.

 

“Fine. Don't answer me. Coward,” she huffed, then giggled. “The Great Gene Hunt, Manc Lion, afraid of vaginas.” She began to laugh uncontrollably.

 

He stood and headed for the door in a stumbling gait. He would not sit here and be emasculated by a toasted Bolly. Bits of shrubbery up his arse would be a more pleasant experience.

 

“Oh, Christ, Gene, no please,” she struggled to stand from the couch with great difficulty, “I didn't. Oh Christ I'm sorry, truly. I didn't mean to actually upset you! I was only - I'm sure you're great! If you have! Or you will be if you haven't! Or – christ. I don't know what to say to fix this.”

 

His hand was on the doorknob now, and he had almost opened it, before realizing he wasn't wearing _fucking_ shoes. Oh to hell with it all.

 

“I haven't,” he mumbled into his arm, leaning against the door, softly and rhythmically banging his forehead into the wood.

 

“Can't hear you if you're gonna talk into the door, Gene” she said, hand on his shoulder. She was close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath and he wanted to taste it secondhand. He sighed, then turned to face her, leaning his back against the door, again resuming his visual dissection of his own stocking feet.

 

“I haven't. I really honestly _fucking_ haven't, Bols. Not once,” he said. Silence.

 

“...do you _want_ to?” she asked, quietly.

 

“I think that stopped being an option several years ago. No one wants a bloke with no idea what he's doing poking around their twat for an hour, now do they?” He sneered. He was drunker than he thought, self-deprecation was not his usual modus operandi. She was getting real honesty from him, actual Gene now, and he wasn't sure that would make him any more appealing.

 

“No – Gene – I'm not – damn it! Look at me!” she was starting to laugh again and he couldn't fucking stand it.

 

“Are you trying to humiliate me, Drake? Is that what this is? Taking potshots at me where you can? I'm sorry my college years weren't as interesting and exotic as yours were, I'm sure you did your fair bit of minge munching but that doesn't mean we all did,” he spat. She was at once amused and infuriated, feelings that went hand in hand where her relationship with the Guv was concerned.

 

“You bloody _fucking_ idiot. You absolutely _stupid_ man. Has no one, in your entire life, not even once, flirted with you?” she laughed. Gene's gears were trying to shift but it's hard to do a 180 when you're sloshed.

 

“Flirting? So now were at flirting are we? Fuck off.”

 

“ _I_ am trying to flirt with you! If for two seconds you would pull your head out of your arse you would notice that I am currently asking you if you want to get me off!”

 

He swallowed hard as the past ten minutes sloppily slid into focus.

 

(her eyes looking down, cheeks flushed, as she asked '...do you want to?')

 

(do you want to. Gene. Gene do you want to. Here in my apartment right now. do you, Gene Hunt, want to go down on me, Alex Drake, right now DO YOU WANT TO)

 

Fuck. Bloody. Fuck.

 

“Right then. I should probably go. I think I need medical attention for the foot shoved so thoroughly in my mouth that it's poking back out of my arse. I'm going to assume I've blown my chances here, eh?” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

 

“Gene, I'm going to my room, and I'm going to take my knickers off. Whether you're there to do anything about it is entirely your prerogative. But if you do decide to follow me, please bring wine,” she said. She took a step toward him, gently placing her hand on his chest, and leaned in, bringing her mouth to his ear.

 

“For what it's worth, I hope you do,” she whispered, and his stomach dropped.


	3. Body Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gene Genie does the deed.

He chugged the remainder of the current wine as best as one can really chug wine. Opening the new bottle proved time consuming, and the moment's state of affairs began to catch up with him. Alcohol made the brain run on a thirty to sixty second delay, as Gene had grown accustomed to. His head swam and he felt like a schoolboy. There was … a girl! In other room, waiting for good ol' Gene Genie to get into her knickers! A real live hot girl! His instincts flicked between fuck or flight and for a moment he almost ducked out. What if he wasn't good? What if Gene failed? What if he tried for hours and hours and he just couldn't get her off? What if he was so bad she had to politely fake it? What if what if what if spun through his skull and unbeknownst to Gene his feet began to drag him down the hall.

He stopped and found himself at her bedroom door. The pinnacle of grace and composure, he attempted to knock on the door in a normal fashion, but instead slipped forward and pounded haphazardly with the flat of his hand. Bugger. She drunkenly slurred something in the affirmative, muffled by the door. He took a deep breath to still himself and then entered the bedroom.

The room was softly lit from a small corner lamp on her bedside table, and Alex Drake positively glowed. She was clad in only a large white button down, something she'd probably confiscated from the station, and a pair of simple black knickers. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she beamed at him; her loved her big stupid toothy grin, almost as much as he loved her. The whole image took his breath away and he wondered for a moment, if he were dead and trapped in some sort of purgatory. Alone with the woman of his dreams, ready and willing, and no idea what to do with himself. Oh well, time to get down to business. He cracked his knuckles and stretched his neck from side to side, then began doing mock lunges. She dissolved in a fit of giggles and snorts and the mood collapsed into something more bearable. Gene finally felt like he could breathe.

“Alright then, your highness. Where do I begin? How do we want to do this? What is the proper procedure for pleasing Miss Posh?”

She threw her head back and laughed so hard she nearly cried.

“You might want to start by taking off your tie,” she said, wiping her eyes, “You should probably roll your sleeves up too. Things might get messy.” Her eyebrows positively waggled.

Slowly loosening his tie and shimmying his hips, he began to perform a mock strip tease, hip shimmies and all. He spun the tie overhead before flinging it at her; she caught it and squealed.

“Christ, you have fantastic arms,” she crooned, as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

“ You do set your standards low, don't you?” Gene asked, Alex narrowing her eyes and tutting disapprovingly, “Now, do I kneel or lie down?”

“My God, you really haven't done this before have you?”

Gene glared. “Haven't we gone over this point before, my dearest?”

Alex huffed and her eyes rolled so hard for a moment he saw only whites.

“Lying down might get tiresome after a while,” Alex explained, “and it makes it much harder to use your hands. I'd consider sitting on your face, but then I'd be doing most of the work and you wouldn't be learning too much.”

Gene's face turned a fabulous shade of quattro red at this idea, and he filed it away for a later date. If there was one. For all he knew this could go absolutely tits up at any given moment.

“I think the best option is if you sit on the floor and I lie flat on the bed,” she decided.

“As you command. Toss me a pillow there then, Queen of Sheba. I doubt you need them all.”

Alex aimed for his head.

He settled into a comfortable position on the floor, cross legged. 

“Are you really sure you want to do this?” she asked, awkwardly shuffling herself toward the end of the bed. “You really don't have to if you're not comfortable. I know we're both three sheets to the wind right now and I wouldn't want it to be something you-”

“Alex. Shut up. Lie down and let me make you come,” he growled, firmly grabbing her thighs and dragging her closer. Alex's legs were a point of frequent fantasy for Gene and being this close to them made his stomach do several advanced gymnastic maneuvers. He raked his fingers gently across the sensitive skin of her inner thighs and she jumped, giggling.

“This would be a lot easier if you took my knickers off. Arsehead,” she teased.

He squinted at her in mock fury, firmly grabbing the edges of her panties and tugging. She raised her hips in compliance, and within a few seconds Gene was face to face with Alex Drake's most private affairs. His cock strained against his zipper and his mouth went dry.

“Gene. Gene, I'm serious. You really don't have to-”

It was like one of those romantic comedies he sometimes caught on the telly, drunk and alone. The girl was protesting, apologizing for something she had no bloody right to, and the bloke would shut her up with a firm kiss on the lips. Only here, Gene, anything but a romantic lead, had simply and unceremoniously begun to make out with her nether regions.

For the first time in their entire acquaintance, Alex Drake was speechless. 

He had jumped into the deep end of the pool and was attempting to doggy paddle. He decided the best course of action was to just pretend he was kissing her. The taste was not unpleasant, and the noises she produced more than made up for it.

“Close your lips on it and suck a bit. Like you're eating an overripe peach,” she sighed, and he shifted, enclosing her clit in his lips and mimicking the motion she described.

“Fuck. Fucking. Fuck Gene fuck,” she growled, winding both her hands in his hair and pushing his face closer in. He sloppily ran his tongue in a rough circle around her clit and then started sucking again. Gene didn't feel quite like a natural, but he didn't feel totally lost either. He slipped a finger inside her and she arched her hips towards the ceiling. Success?

“More. Gene. Please,” she moaned helplessly, and he growled in response, forcing a second, then third finger into her cunt. 

“No you need to – you need to flip your hand the other way,” she huffed.

He mumbled something about backseat driving, but complied, angling his fingers upward instead of down. Always one to speak her mind, that one.

“Yeah, use your fingers to push forward and upward, oh god oh fuck Gene don't stop-”

(like hell he'd fucking stop now)

“oh god Gene I'm going to come-”

She was grinding herself onto his face and hand now, practically shouting; Gene had never seen anything so fantastic.

“Gene fuck Gene” she arched, yelling, finally settling into a series of spasms before going totally still on the bed, panting and breathing raggedly. Slowly, he raised his head up to look at her.

“Were my services this evening to your satisfaction, princess?”

She laughed, staring at the ceiling, running a hand across her sweaty forehead and through her loose curls.

“Satisfaction achieved. Please come here so I can disgustingly cuddle you to bits.”

Gene flopped down next to her and propped himself on an elbow, their faces almost touching. She looked into his eyes, smiled softly, and brushed her lips against his. The kiss was chaste compared to the evenings hijinks, and it sat heavy on his chest. For a moment they sat in silence, inhaling each others air, listening to the sounds of the night outside.

“I think I love you, Gene. I'm sorry, it's terrible. I know. These things simply can't be helped,” she whispered.

“Tragically, I might return the sentiment,” he whispered back.

“Quite the pickle we're in then.”

“Quite. What do you say we fuck it all and deal with it in the morning?”

“That sounds marvelous. Get the light would you?” she asked, scooting under the blanket.

He got up, and before he flipped the switch he lingered for a moment on the image of her, dressed in white, sweaty and disheveled and pink and his, and he wondered if this was heaven.


End file.
